Ferreting Out the Truth
by Late to the Party
Summary: A string of apparently unrelated killings leads Ulraunt and the Gatewarden to suspect a killer inside Candlekeep's walls. Naturally their gaze turns to [Charname]. Will his alibi hold? And what connection does the missing star sapphire and flamedance ring have with the murders? Thefts gone wrong or is there something more sinister at play?
1. 1

1.

The shovel struck the ground, the soil clammy and clogged from the rains. The predawn damp saturated it and made each scoop heavier than it needed to be. But that really wasn't his problem because the skeletal remnant he had invoked from the body of the flesh it was currently burying was the one doing the digging. There was a certain symmetry to it and that pleased him. Of course, the body itself was neither here nor there; no, what was important was the star sapphire it had once claimed as its possession, a star sapphire that was now very much lost, ground into dust, along with the flamedance ring of another hapless mook who had the misfortune to bear it. The trouble with sacrifice is it required precisely that: a sacrifice, and sacrifices were messy, and in this case, bloody.

He glanced around. The tide was low but would soon rise and mask all the tracks along the cove. The line between sand and soil was marked by vegetation, cliffs and within the cliffs were the catacombs of Candlekeep.

Setting his arm down against the damp rock, he watched the shadows over the surface of the sea, tasted the salt spray. If all went to plan, it might well be the last time he did. If all went to plan, the poison he prepared from the various garden herbs and catacomb fungi would never harm him again but as the last victim, he would exonerate himself.


	2. 2

2.

It had begun some time ago. A shipwreck washed up against the shore, the vessel's bottom torn out by the rocks during a harsh storm, a storm that came out of nowhere, and from the timber remains, a crate packed with straw. Within that carefully prepared straw was a single figurine, a statue. Very old, stone, with a strange face, oddly deformed eyes and a bulbous nose. It deserved an alter; demanded one. It whispered inside his mind, trying to nest inside his dreams. But its voice was weaker than the one that already resided there, and its voice was silenced: the word KOZAH lost all meaning but the idol remained, set neatly on a naturally hollow, a shelf within the catacombs. On a whim, he brought it offerings, seaweed, coral, sacrificed crabs to it, rats, gulls.

The skies were filled with storms that season.

Those were the nights that shrouded him from view, where the rain lanced the world in such sheets that a wall of water descended. After the midnight bell fell, the patrons retired to their chambers, quitting the comfort of the tavern's hearth for a trusty bed, never knowing that the inside of their tankard was coated with that strange concoction of herbs and fungi, a taste masked by the strong ale and hearty stew. It took only a few drops after all, thrice distilled and strengthened, much like the potent liquors that many guests enjoyed. How easily Winthrop had shared that knowledge to an inquisitive mind who asked innocently about the difference between ale and firewine, between beer and whiskey.

How easily the kitchen shared its knowledge of herbs, warning of what fungi never to pick when it sent them scurrying towards the forest for truffles and other caps. How obediently he recited the edible forest fare, what he was to look for, and how he earnt praise when he returned with it and a cuff when he did not. Never did he get it entirely right; no, to appear too competent was a mistake warned the voice within, the dark voice that spoke to him in dreams and drowned out the name KOZAH in an endless sea.


	3. 3

3.

It was the dark voice that guided him towards the catacombs, or perhaps it had been his own dark curiosity, an inquisitive nature that had never quite stilled. The entrance was not through the cellars, through the warded lower levels of Candlekeep, oh no, but through beachcombing as he retrieved kelp and other weeds from the sea for the kitchen, shells for various components by the mages and the clerics. Those mages refused their knowledge for a boy who was slow to read; the clerics denied their wisdom for one too impious, too awkward. He was no hunchback, nor dim-witted yet patience was lacking and the words of the tomes he struggled with, or so he portrayed. And so, relegated to the tavern, he swept the floors, shook out the bedsheets, and was banished from the grounds to forage. He attended afternoon lessons to the despair of his tutors, both those versed in the Art and those in the ways of the gods, then returned to the tavern in the evening to serve the patrons with stuffed purses while they strutted in their silks.

Little did they know.

* * *

The tome was nestled within the bones of a sarcophagus, a sarcophagus that had deterred the last would-be archaeologist whose rifling had cost him, her, life, and later his, her skeleton. That was the first set of bones he animated, drawing on the teachings of the dark voice, the voice that promised power beyond power, life beyond life. It was probably a lie but what was more insane: piddling away as a scullion boy or surpassing those who trod on his neck? And so he went along with it.

Bound in enchanted leather, this tome was unlike any he had seen within Candlekeep's shelves. 'These halls contain the world's knowledge', some tutor or other was fond of lecturing him, but it was otherworldly knowledge that was of far more interest to him: the acquisition was more troublesome. The dark voice within warned the glyphs that bound the cover were a lure but he already knew an elaborate trap when he saw one; he had trapped rats for years, hunting them, baiting them, laying snares. Clearing the cellars was a job few lowered themselves to and one he was always assigned. He grew very, very good at it but as with all things, he hid his progress and returned with but a few rats, for which he was cuffed for and berated and belittled. Once he retorted that perhaps a ferret would do a better job – and that had earnt him the moniker 'Ferret'. So be it. Ferret he was, and for each day after, Ferret he remained.

Would anyone be surprised to learn that the dark voice suggested that people were rats, that they were as easily snared and hung, as easily impaled and poisoned as those furry critters that scurried across the dank, stone floors? Would anyone be surprised to learn that the voice was right?


	4. 4

4.

The tome took a long time to decipher: decoding the glyphs was the easy part; pronouncing them was not. But in the end, the pronunciation didn't matter: all that mattered was the sacrifice, the force of will, and what lay behind it. Beyond life lay death but to achieve life beyond death required life… which came at great cost: substituting one's own life required the sacrifice of another's. It was no different than killing a cow in order to survive, the dark voice reasoned, ignoring the fact that sentient beings were deemed higher than bovines. Dragons considered themselves above 'lesser mortals' and would happily devour them, the voice continued to postulate, and if he was greater than those that would bind him, he would have to prove it by throwing off the shackles of death.

It made sense, in a sick, twisted sort of way. And it wasn't as if at least one person hadn't already attempted it, making those pious, holier-than-thou hypocrites: after all, had he not found the tome buried within the bones of one of their most venerated sages? A tome depicting the secrets of a life beyond death, an undeath. Not that it had done the corpse any good, or maybe it had.


	5. 5

5.

The Gatewarden hauled him into Ulraunt's office, where Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes, awaited, grim-faced as always. Those beady eyes narrowed behind darkened folds of aging flesh, not quite squinting. Through the cracked vellum-like skin, pale anger flushed and teeth bared behind a closed jaw; those wrinkles reminded him of scars scorched across a page, the leather-bound volume trimmed neatly and folded taut. How old was Ulraunt anyway?

It didn't matter; it never had. He affected a stupefied air, a slow, slack-jawed 'huh' at Ulraunt's 'Do you know why you're here? Do you have anything to say for yourself, to what you've done? Lift his foot!'

The Gatewarden hauled up his left boot; of course, the nails were firm, their heads flat. The Gatewarden's gaze thinned and the brawny man released the foot with a heavy thud. It struck the floor and its owner scrunched up his upper lip and his eye, offering a view of a yellowed canine.

That did it. A blood vessel seemed to pop near the old man's temple; he had to refrain from giggling. Instead, his eyes remained glazed and he let his shoulders sag from a high shrug. The Gatewarden looked disgusted. Ulraunt waved his hand and he found himself hauled away, literally thrown out into the hallway.

Behind his feigned hurt, his big, sallow, pooling eyes, a grin took form, a toothy grin, reminiscent of a skull. Naturally his cell had been searched, the bedding tossed, the walls pried for loosened stones, the floorboards pulled. Naturally, he had hidden the oversized boot stuffed with rags and a rock beneath a rockpool, the nail on the upper toe yanked free and its neighbours scraped down. That same bootprint was found near every victim. It didn't hurt that one of the Watchers of the Keep happened to have a limp, a limp that always caused his boot-toe to wear down.

He had never cared for Fuller but he hated Hull; out of all the Watchers, Hull cuffed, cussed and threatened to tan his hide the most: therefore, it would be Fuller, Hull's friend who never bothered him that would take the fall. Hull was far too obvious and besides, one day, those hangover antidotes of his would fail to work, a gradual loss of potency, and at that point, well, Hull would turn towards a stronger dose, perhaps three instead of his now-usual two, and it would be such a shame when his homemade remedy was too strong and stopped his heart. And whose fault would that be? No one but Hull's own, for after all, hadn't Fuller warned him that one day those 'cures' would be the death of him, and what would drive Hull to drink more than the death of his drinking companion of many years?


	6. 6

6.

When it came time to hollow out the idol from which the name KOZAH resounded, the nook holding the flamedance shards and powdered star sapphire along with a bandaged heart, he required still. So it was that a high tide beneath a full moon became his chosen night, a night for the ritual relayed within the tome, a ritual spurred on by the dark voice. Immortality, the shedding of the mortal coil, the embrace of undeath upon the death of his own flesh.

He might not be a great or even a mighty mage in the Art, but he was something else and the Weave did obey him, but so did an inner reserve, a reserve that no one else knew or spoke of. It was the voice that first directed him there and channelling that reserve, he had animated that first skeleton deep within the catacomb's crypt. That same reserve would fuel the ritual and he would have his phylactery. Time, he knew, was running out. It would not be long before he was expelled from Candlekeep; even without evidence, he knew Ulraunt had it in for him. 'Ferret' was no good everyone whispered, 'Ferret' had to go.

And go he would. He would leave them all a little surprise, coating the salted hams, the salted fish, the dried kelp and fruit, everything, even the pages of their beloved tomes. He had coated it all and once he was gone from this place, once he fell, his death throes would activate it. Never had he prepared something so vast but he knew it would work. Their deaths would give him power, fuel his rise. That is what the dark voice promised and that 'Ferret' knew was not a lie. He understood about sacrifice.

Shakily, he hefted a knife honed from bone, a femur sharpened to a point, and uttering the arcane words the tome had taught him, he plunged it into the still heart and opened himself up. Rivulets of power became rivers, flowing through him, from him, out down his arms, his fingers, his fingernails, into the bone, into the heart: the deadened, still heart began to beat, crystallising into a gem. Blood amber, he decided, ichor, and then, those beady eyes within the idol began to glow. Crimson-orange, crimson-yellow; fire. He felt something constrict within himself, some great weight against something beneath his heart. He continued to chant, forcing his will, his very being, his essence into the old, stone idol.

Then bearing the little stone figurine aloft, he cast it out into the rippling sea, a sea that had stretched up into the cove. The magic kept it afloat and there it would journey on until it found save haven. Outside, the storms raged under the name of KOZAH. His belief in the idol, his essence, reignited the old storm god's life, and in turn, the idol would grant him life beyond life. Symmetry: it pleased him.

And now, Ferret thought, for Ulraunt and the others. His tutor, Gorion, was getting antsy: come child, we must hurry, Ferret could hear the old sage exclaim now, all under Ulraunt's guidance. Gorion never had a thought of his own; for all the man's tall tales, he had overlooked one, teensy-tiny little fact: in the grandiose stories of adventure, heroes, lovers, and fools, there were always the 'villains', those drawn to dark powers. In Gorion's version, the wicked were vanquished, usually, the heroes' stealing their plunder and seducing the maidens, but the heroes only ever reacted. Their power was nothing more than that of a thief; the villains were the great builders, the visionaries, the heroes merely vandals, rats to be snared and hanged, poisoned and impaled.

The dark voice showed him another story, a better one, where power was his. But what the dark voice and Gorion both failed to realise that in every story, the villain was simply someone trying to avenge themselves, often trying to build a world according to their own vision, and according to the villain's narrative, it was the 'heroes' that were the true villains, meddlesome sages like Gorion, Gorion who knew 'Ferret's' mother but never told him the truth, only half truths, falsehoods, and misdirecting lies.

So now he would tell another story, one where he, the downtrodden 'Ferret' rose up to slay the rats. After all, rats were lesser creatures with lesser lives and lesser intelligence. Ferrets were rat-killers. He was only doing what they trained him to.

_Fin_


End file.
